


Two Doors

by spicy (suanla)



Series: door to a door to a door [4]
Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, Overstimulation, pls read note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29262867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suanla/pseuds/spicy
Summary: In a way, Carmilla on the receiving end is not as demanding as she usually is. You don’t know how much of it is because of her physiology, her heightened senses. She requires very little to get off: a tongue or some fingers, just the sensation is near enough. Her ability to withstand ‘too much’ also makes it so that she doesn’t need much finesse on your part.In every other aspect, of course, she demands.
Relationships: Carmilla (Castlevania)/Original Female Character(s), Carmilla (Castlevania)/Reader
Series: door to a door to a door [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914898
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	Two Doors

**Author's Note:**

> anyway ur comments rly whipped me into shape and i spent the last week slamming this shit out, i forgot a lot of my initial ideas &rushed some parts but lmao i hope u enjoy 
> 
> in which carmilla walks a different world from yours and still u 2 play a game of chicken: shes an asshole, testing how much assholery she can get away w before u draw the line. 
> 
> OK I came back and i wanted to clarify this bc i feel it may be lost in my pretentious ass writing if one reads this too quickly: carmilla is a terrible person in canon and i didnt want to change that bc ethics is kinda my shit, anyway she makes rly depraved threats and does a lot of questionable shit and much of the time its like shes putting u under trial by fire, BUT what happens in ur relationship w her is ultimately down to u so her threats are, largely, empty. what she does, u could raise issue with and she would listen. and another BUT she is still a genocidal bitch and thats outside ur relationship w her, thats sumn ur just gonna hv to deal w in whatever way
> 
> JUST so u know, btw 1) i wrote this not for the porn but just to tie up some loose ends but ofc theres porn 2) some lines were left undecided on purpose so u can fill it in for urself, i figured i should make an effort to make it more reader fic-esque

It gets lonely in the castle. Hector hardly acknowledges you, and when he does, it's to be an asshole. You complain once—an off-handed comment to Lenore when she’s managed to corner you into a conversation—but it feels too much like you’re young again, tattling on one of your siblings to your mother. Then, there’s also that night you spent with her and Carmilla that hangs over every interaction with her. You certainly never did _that_ with your mother.

Anyway, Lenore had only raised her eyebrows and smiled blandly, in that way people do when they’re humouring somebody without actually listening.

Compared to how painfully awkward you feel around Lenore, you think Striga and Morana make for better company. They’re both a little standoffish, but less so than Carmilla, and there’s an honesty about Striga that Lenore lacks. Morana is intelligent and elegant and much colder than her counterpart, but you don’t find one without the other, and they offset one another, somewhat. Still, they both have that same disregard for humanity that most of their kind have, so you don’t go out of your way to seek them out.

Really, it’s Carmilla you spend your time with. Mostly, you two just roll around in her sheets, or upon any horizontal surface in her room, sometimes up against vertical structures, and there were a few romps in the libraries, including yours.

Well, it’s technically one of Carmilla’s libraries. ‘Your library’ is the one you just happen to occupy most often. Also, she doesn't come in unless it's to seek you out. So, it is, in a way, yours. She has a few libraries in her wing of the castle, one attached to her bedroom and another to her study, and there’s the boring one with the plush chairs for greeting guests—not that there are ever any guests.

Anyway, you’ve acquired a few books for yourself in the past year, from the conquests, and she hasn’t said anything about your keeping them here.

You trace the spine of one of them, an encyclopedia about herbs, and try not to think about where you’d gotten it from.

Sighing, you move on to the next shelf, squinting at the titles. Ah, there. _On Etiquette_.

The sky’s purpling like a bruise now, sun almost gone. In the light of a dying day, you settle into the couch by the alcove, dragging a blanket over your lap and then placing the thin hardcover in your lap.

It’s cold, as usual. Not physically, no. The castle is heated up by some advanced technology, and you're layered up anyway. It's the solitude that sends shivers through your body. The ceilings in every room are impossibly tall, the furniture sleek and spare, and the people—the _people!_ —they are indeed the worst of it all. It's just lonely. Cold. Lifeless.

Some days, you consider leaving. Carmilla has promised that you could, and you believe her. But you would miss her. If you left, she wouldn’t take you back. And you’d miss her.

So, you stay, and you put up with the isolation.

There are a few guards who’ll talk to you. Usually, the low-ranking ones who aren’t particularly nice to you. But short conversation is better than no conversation at all. A couple of the kitchen staff have taken pity on both you and Hector, too, and will answer your questions about the outside world if you asked. Not that you do.

You like your books well enough. They occupy you.

You’re midway through reading about how to bow properly or whatever when the door opens, and Carmilla sweeps in. Today, she’s in a maroon blouse, as expensive as it is nice, tucked into a pair of ironed trousers. You’ve seen the specific shade of red before—yes, on a matching jacket. Probably, she’s left it in her study.

She locates you instantly and makes a beeline for you.

“Hi,” you say mildly as she takes the book out of your hands and picks you up. Automatically, your legs wind around her waist. She does that, manhandles you, and you’ve gotten used to it.

She doesn’t reply. Ever the engaging conversationalist.

Instead, she sits down in the spot you vacated, settling you in her lap. Without preamble, she yanks your shirt down and bites your shoulder, ignoring your quiet hiss. Formerly, she might’ve taken a second to locate a nice vein in your neck; now, she already knows the places she likes to feed from. It’s muscle memory.

Lately, familiarity seems to only be provoked from you regarding matters of the body—that is, your body and hers. This dependence on her, you know, is unhealthy. You should extricate yourself. You don’t want to.

To distract from the pain, you try to count to ten with each inhale and again on your exhale.

Eventually, she makes a noise of contentment, tonguing at the wound. It had taken you nearly two entire months to muster enough courage and ask her to properly clean up after herself. She’s quite good about it now; something you’re pleased about.

After another lick, she pulls away and says: “Hello.”

You wind your hands around her neck, trying to relax into her despite the throbbing pain in your shoulder. “You didn’t take much.”

She quirks an eyebrow and strokes her fingers over your leaking wound, eyes glinting with schadenfreude.

You grit your teeth, bearing the pain.

"Would you like me to take more?" she taunts lowly.

Sighing, you lean into her body a little more, enjoying the contact and at the same time, resenting your own enjoyment. “Do whatever you want, Carmilla,” you say, tiredly.

She scrutinises you, combs a hand through your hair, cups the side of your head. So contrary. So mercurial.

You sigh again, closing your eyes and leaning into her palm.

“Darling,” she says after a moment, nudging you to open your eyes. That particular pet name always makes your heart clench a little. “I have something for you.”

That’s… different. “What is it?”

“Well.” She begins to undo her buttons as she speaks. Your mouth goes a little dry. “Actually, it’s for me. Semantics.”

She’s in a mood, then. The one where she talks to you like she’s talking to herself. Your place is to sit, wait, and listen. In the meantime, you watch her open her blouse, eyeing the smooth skin as it’s revealed. The fabric pools off her shoulders with a shrug, and then she’s topless.

She nudges you again, hands still tangled in your hair, and you take the hint, hunching down to capture a light pink nipple between your lips. She hums in approval.

Instantly, arousal pools white-hot into your core.

You stroke your fingers over her soft skin, the bump of her clavicle, and over the curve of her breast. You rub a thumb over her other nipple. It tightens up beneath your touch.

Her hands disappear. Distantly, you hear a rustle and a light clinking—she's rummaging in her pants pocket—also, a soft groan.

Encouraged, you swirl your tongue around her nipple and apply the gentlest suction.

But then she pulls you off, paying no mind to the smacking sound of your lips or the protest that falls out before you can stop it. At least, you’re still groping the weight of her breast in one hand. This, she allows.

And then a something pulls tight around your throat, and you immediately suck in a breath, eyes skittering from all that pale skin to her eyes in askance, in mild alarm.

A collar.

She’s collared you.

Instinctively, your hand flies off her chest and grabs at her wrist. She makes a guttural sound and tears your hand off her, squeezing with bruising force. You freeze, shocked and still trying to catch up with what’s happening. She always does this—springs things onto you and tempers your reaction. She thinks it’s an easier way to make you comply. Which is true, more often than not.

Yes, you can only sit there in her lap, letting it happen, while she clasps the strip of leather shut and wiggles a pair of fingers between the collar and your neck.

“There,” she says, after a moment, satisfied like a cat with a dead bird at its feet. She pats your neck, appraising you. “How fitting.”

"Um, okay," you start. And then stop. What do you even say to this? Everybody you interact with already knows who you are to Carmilla, what you provide for her. This will hardly be a stain on your already muddied reputation. Anyway, it's not like their opinions matter. Those opinions that do—well, they’d probably find this amusing, probably wouldn’t be surprised. Even you’re not that surprised.

At least, this feels like a normal collar. ‘Normal,’ in a relative sense, of course, since you hadn’t previously considered collars for human people as such. Though, you have since been exposed to things like magical jewellery that can enslave people.

Nevertheless, better to make sure: “This isn’t like Hector, right?” You wiggle your fingers. “Like the ring?”

She tilts her head, face blank in that deliberate way of hers. “No. The terms of our agreement still hold. You can extricate yourself from here—from me when you please.”

“I was just checking,” you say quickly, even though she didn’t need the reassurance.

Thankfully, she doesn’t point this out. Just rolls her eyes. “So long into this affair and only now do you consider the possibility that I could capture you in such a way.”

Her barb makes you relax a little—same old Carmilla.

Sometimes, she gets like this. In her own way, with her limited capacity for it, she cares for you. She forces you into discussing logistics, taking on a condescending tone as she does it. It warms the heart. Frustrates it.

You sigh, briefly closing your eyes. No way out but through.

Slowly, the weeping heat at your centre returns to the forefront of your awareness. If one were to strip your relationship down to its barest form, what remains would be desire. Hot, messy desire. Not overwhelming the way it was in the beginning. A benefit of familiarity, you suppose.

You still have the presence of mind to shrug. “I did consider it. I considered and decided I didn’t mind.”

You want to go back to what you were doing before: making her feel good. But her hands suddenly grip onto your shoulders. It aches.

Tomorrow, you will be bruised all over.

Carmilla gives you a shake, drawing your attention back to her face. She wears an intent look, eyebrows set in a severe line.

“What is it?” you ask, trying to keep the impatience out of your voice.

For a while, she just stares. You try not to squirm. If you fail, she has the grace not to say anything. Then, she tsks. “I told you to mind your—” She sneers: “Your heart. With me.”

Her hands have loosened enough for you to sway forward a tad. Your own palm comes to rest on her sternum. “Honestly?”

She scoffs. “You couldn’t lie to me even if you wanted to.”

“I think I could. I just wouldn’t. We’ve talked about this.” Her eyes narrow into slits at your gentle patience; obviously, she doesn’t interpret it very kindly. You change tactics. “ _Honestly_ , this is just as much to do with the mind as it is to do with the heart. It can be very pleasant to be with you. My mind wants what is pleasant. So…”

"So," she sighs in agreement and then leans forward to tongue at your neck.

Immediately, you tilt your head back, falling into her, accommodating. Her arms slip down, circling around your waist.

At that moment, it isn't enough. You cry out, not loudly, but piercing in a way that makes her pause. She lets you nudge her head away, lets you untuck her opened blouse from her trousers, lets you lave hotly at the valley of her breasts.

“Good,” she says, and you take the peak of her breast in your mouth, and you suck, and lick, and nip, and she says, again, “Good.”

Your hand strokes down her abdomen, feels the softness of her stomach, the tension beneath it.

And she repeats it, harshly.

Permission, this time.

Your eyes open, just to make sure, and you see her own clenched shut, red lips parted so slightly. You don’t bother fumbling at buttons or the like, fingers slipping beneath her waistband easily enough. Your hand will definitely cramp, but such is life. No great pleasure comes without at least a bit of pain.

She’s slick and warm under your touch. By the slightly throaty cadence of her moan, you figure she’ll want it fast, so you make haste. You drag two fingers from her entrance to her clit, wetting them, and you press down.

“ _Fuck_.”

Her mouth falls wider open in a near-silent groan. You notice the glint of her teeth, the sharp points.

You redirect your attention, forging a slippery path over her chest, leaving open-mouthed kisses along the hard lines of her neck as you go. She makes another sound of approval.

You don’t let this get to your head—well, you do, but you don’t let it show, since she’d knock you down a few pegs the moment she figures you out—and she will, eventually. Not that you mind.

It’s just, right now, this feels safer: not speaking, not looking at each other, not doing anything you haven’t done before.

You’re literally collared. In almost every sense of the word, you are kept on this estate like a pet. Really, she has only just made your subjugation even more complete. She has taken a step for both of you. Forward or backwards, depending on how you view it. Either way, it's something new. Thus, something potentially dangerous.

You push the thought aside. You take in the sound of her, the feel of her.

This feels normal. This feels safer.

You circle around her clit, picking up speed when she issues the command sharply— “ _Faster_.”

It’s only when she tips forward, burying her face in your neck, that you cease your latest pointless attempt at marking her. You blink the haze out of your eyes, chin on her shoulder, focusing instead on the bookshelf behind her for a second.

“More,” she says, voice heavy and blunt.

Her breath, unnaturally cool, pants into the hollow between your bodies. She inhales the smell of you like you’re a fine glass of wine. Laps and bites at your tender flesh like she’s desperate to consume.

You oblige, replacing your fingers with your thumb so that they can slip down the folds of her labia, around the sensitive skin of her entrance. One finger in, and the other. Pushing into the velvet of her inner walls.

This is where she is the most natural. Where she runs the hottest.

You don’t have to go far to find the spot that makes her jerk down harder onto your fingers.

You set a quick, steady pace.

Sex with Carmilla can, occasionally, become a somewhat surreal concept when you’re not actively partaking, when you’re left pondering it after the fact (something you often do, given your lack of entertainment). In part, it’s because of the differences between you two, most of which you have discussed at length. The nature of it, too, is hardly what you would consider ordinary. How many people can say their lover drinks from their veins like a fountain? Hits them on request? Collars them?

During, however, there is nothing more grounding. And you let yourself become grounded in the way she pants into your neck, in the tight clench of her around your fingers.

In a way, Carmilla on the receiving end is not as demanding as she usually is. You don’t know how much of it is because of her physiology, her heightened senses. She requires very little to get off: a tongue or some fingers, just the sensation is near enough. Her ability to withstand ‘too much’ also makes it so that she doesn’t need much finesse on your part.

In every other aspect, of course, she demands.

Direction—one of your basic needs. Sweet, sweet direction.

So, Carmilla is, in this way, grounding.

You press into her harder, and she curses under her breath. She’s close.

Your thumb rubs over her clit, applies more pressure. Inside, your fingers curl.

She comes. Her head falls away, tilted upon the back of the couch.

You gentle your strokes, drawing her orgasm out for her.

Your eyes drift over the spines of your books, to the smooth white of her skin. The sharp jut of her chin. The blades of her cheekbones.

Breathing isn’t something required for her continued existence, but it is something she does if she wants to speak. You've noticed it's somewhat habitual. She inhales when she prepares to utter a sound. Whether or not she actually does is entirely up to her. It’s sort of a tell.

Right now, you watch the rise of her chest. You watch the gleam of her skin from where you had mouthed at her. Then, you watch the fall of her chest. And the second rise:

“Out,” she finally says. You pull your sticky fingers out of her.

Another moment passes. Then, abruptly, she stands, discarding you onto the floor as she is wont to do.

Your wrist twists out of her trousers, twinging from the awkward bend. Your arse isn’t too happy about it either, smarting from the hard floors. You scowl.

“What—”

Metal cuts into the skin of your throat, and you almost gag from the pressure. Carmilla's grabbed you by the back of your collar, hauling you up and releasing you thereafter. You’re still choking as you catch your balance.

She’s already slipped her shirt back over her shoulders by the time you look over.

"Water. Food." She nods at the table. You know it's there. You carried the tray over this morning.

From the start, she'd made a point of being entirely unsympathetic to your frowns, and now she blithely ignores it. You internalise your harrumph and reach for the pitcher, drinking straight from the lip.

Her eyes, the pale shade of blue she’d deprived you of earlier, burn holes into your back.

You place the pitcher on the table when it’s halfway done and turn, staring back.

She does her shirt up, leaving the top two undone.

"I will have a servant bring you more." There isn't a hint of warmth in her voice. Just an exacting sort of rationality. "I expect you to finish it all."

You’re not fooled. “What’s it to you?”

Neither is she.

In the blink of an eye, she is in front of you, and she cracks her palm across your cheek. You stumble back with a cry, more in shock than anything. It’s a light slap, all things considered.

“Behave. Drink. Eat.” She towers over you, imperious as ever. “I have matters to attend. You will rest in my rooms, await me. After, I shall attend to you.”

And then her imposing presence is across the room.

You cradle your cheek, tracking her to the entrance. A rush of indignation fills you up. You feel bolder now, as she makes her exit. “Shouldn’t you, too, mind your heart around me?”

Carmilla pauses, looking over her shoulder. “Adorable, pet.” She shakes her head, turning her cheek. She sounds almost rueful, certainly quieter, when she says, “But there really isn’t much left to mind.”

You don’t have anything to say to that; nothing she’d listen to, at least. She sweeps out of the room.

You grab a bread roll, and the door slams shut behind her, and you eat.

* * *

Carmilla combs a hand through your hair. It’s grown out longer than you prefer—you’ll have to cut it later.

In the meantime, you enjoy the sensation of nails scratching at your scalp. Even lines, down, around.

You sigh, eyelids heavy. “I like it when you do that.”

She pulls her hand away. You had regretted it the moment the words left your mouth.

Your head drops to the side, eying her face. She looks back at you evenly.

Her robe is pooled around her waist, the vibrancy making her look sharper. The pale of her skin comes in starker outlines like this. You like her this way: severe, consumed by you.

Because, yes, to deny you, she must first consider what you want, and you enjoy this consideration.

When you reach out, turning onto your side, and draw your fingers over her thighs, she lets you. Her knees fall open.

“I like it when you do that,” she echoes, musing over your words. Sounds like she’s seconds from scoffing at you. The near-translucent blues of her eyes betray her; they glance down to your fingers. Those fingers, warm and eager and reaching.

You cup her in your palm, unable to stop the smile from tugging across your face. “Should I follow your example?”

The smile you receive in return is as shark-like as your own. Her bite is, of course, much worse than yours could possibly be. She relaxes into the throne of pillows behind her and slides a cold hand over your neck.

“Do as you say, not as you do?” you whisper, taunting. Your hand stays where it is, unmoving.

“Now you’re getting it,” she says drolly, and her fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing your lips to pucker. Palm firm on the underside of your jaw, she hauls you closer so suddenly you almost collapse on top of her.

She looks down her nose at you, still grinning. Anticipation crawls up your spine.

Your clothes are pressed and hanging in her closet in preparation for tomorrow.

"A kiss," she says and lays a chaste peck to your lower lip. You don't get the chance to reciprocate. She's too fast, can't break out of her grip. "For good luck." She squeezes, turns your face, and presses her lips to your cheek.

You hope you won’t need it.

* * *

After, spent and sleepy, you stare at her ceiling.

It’s impossible to tell what time it is since the curtains are so thick, but it must be nearing sunrise if Carmilla’s already yanking blankets over herself.

“Hey.” You turn to look at her.

She grunts in response, fluffing a pillow.

“Do I… Do you want me to wear the collar tomorrow?”

Squinting at you, she settles into bed and licks one of her canines in thought. Then, she grins and shrugs. “Up to you.”

The mattress moves under her as she twists away, back to you now.

Most things are up to you. Sometimes it makes you feel good, that she gives you freedom the way she does. Other times, it feels like she just doesn't care enough, and that can hurt. It can make your head spin since you're sure she cares. She does. On occasion, you think that it's an underhanded way to make you feel utterly _owned_.

Wear the collar or not, everyone already knows you’re leashed, no matter how loose, and they know who’s on the other end, who has you looped in her palm.

You sigh and decide the question of the collar is one you’ll answer later tonight. For now, you just turn your back on her and close your eyes.

* * *

She’s gone before you wake which isn’t out of the ordinary since you need the rest more, but her absence does nothing to soothe your nerves.

Honestly, it’s a little hard to parse why.

On the one hand, you’re a rare human in a castle about to be filled with vampires. Specifically, the powerful, warmongering kind of vampire. On the other hand, Carmilla occupies a position high up in the vampiric social and political hierarchy and, given your unique place in her life, this must afford you some protection.

So, really, this hinges on Carmilla. How she behaves affects how the rest behave.

But then, back to the human point—you aren’t important enough to be considered anything more than a gimmick to these creatures. Carmilla, even, hasn't dedicated much of her time to prepare you for this party. She's seen you less in the last fortnight and, when she has sought you out, it's been primarily for her own release. She's not usually so selfish a lover.

Now, looking at the hall you’d been ushered into, you can see where her attention has been. You touch the seat a servant had pushed you toward, mind wandering.

The room, the air in it, feels profoundly significant. It’s not the fact that the place gleams from how polished it is; it’s more so the why of it.

There’s something effortless to the way Carmilla captures one’s attention. Maybe it’s more accurate to say that she gives the impression that she is entirely uncaring of what others think or say about her, all the while maintaining a particular air of dignity about her. She dresses the way she does, behaves in her way, decorates her home, all for herself. Exact to her tastes.

By doing this, she excludes people from her inner circle without even having to go out of her way to do it.

You know she would wreck the entire place in front of the crowd and in a heartbeat if it were to her tastes. How the others react, well, that's really none of her concern.

So, this room, beautifully organised, tells you that she's preening. This room is a reflection of her success. Probably, Lenore and Morana had a hand in this, but this is unsurprising. Carmilla’s machinations aren’t something she executes on her own. They’ve all been working toward something.

Tonight, all their efforts come to a head.

This gathering is, at its core, political.

It’s something that is occurring in a world outside of your own: Carmilla’s. Here, you are an ant, excluded from even the outermost fringes of her society. No, you do not matter at all.

So, how _will_ she behave? Would she forget you? Treat you like her little plaything—that’s what you are, isn’t it? Is it?

The same old questions you have asked her many times before. Still, unanswered.

And Carmilla appears behind you as if summoned by your thoughts. You startle.

"Ugh, get rid of it," she tells a nearby servant, gesturing to your chair. "And someone, open the fucking curtains."

She clasps your shoulder—and nudges you aside, making for the archway into the adjoining room.

You flounder, but the servant almost bowls you over in his haste to toss the chair out, and you end up going in Carmilla’s direction anyway. So, you follow.

“Um,” you start.

Carmilla stands with her arms akimbo. Doesn’t spare you a glance. “What is it?”

“I mean, what—um—where do I sit?” You smooth a hand down your outfit.

Now, she looks down at you. She makes a pleased sound and reaches out to tighten your collar just a tad bit more. An unnecessary reminder of your place. “Darling, I haven’t forgotten your cheek from yesterday.”

You wonder if you should cringe visibly.

"You'll stand or sit on the floor. I don't care, really." Her smile disappears, and she turns to look at a set of locked doors by a bookshelf. "Just stay out of the way."

Tonight, you really are in the same category as the art on the walls. The hors d'oeuvres plated on the tables. You still don’t feel entirely at peace about this whole thing, but it is somewhat appeasing to know that whatever might happen tonight, it will have absolutely nothing to do with you.

* * *

There are a few plates of food you like, and you hover near them. Other than that, you get to be a wallflower if you so choose. You appreciate the many nooks and corners you could fold yourself into as guests begin to filter in.

Indeed, nobody gives you more than a curious glance. The Styrian Court have come out dressed to the nines as they usually are, and schmoozing has commenced in full force.

The servants are tenser than usual and don’t entertain you. It’s unwise to egg them on, to cause any sort of disruption.

Not for the first time you wish Hector were here. You resent him a little—he gets to play with his little creatures in whatever dank basement he’s acquired for himself while you’re stuck here, cowering like a lamb surrounded by wolves.

Anyway, he's always more agreeable when there are vampires present, barring the Court who, understandably, makes him clam up. Lenore, especially, still has him shutting down.

You exhale, making sure to be quiet as not to draw attention to yourself. You’re hyperaware of the fact that you are the only one in the room that actually needs to breathe.

Subconsciously, again, your gaze is drawn to Carmilla. Her face betrays nothing, though her head slants as if she were pondering something. There are three other women and one man with her. They, too, are draped in finery.

Just one of their shirts could probably pay for a month of food for your family, maybe more. It’s not like you’re up to speed on the economic happenings of your home, far from it as you are.

Like many others in the room, Carmilla holds a goblet. She's always beautiful, regal, untouchable, but then a cruel smile flashes across her face, and she looks into her drink, giving it an absentminded swirl, and she’s suddenly angled against the firelight, and you think she’s actually quite handsome like this too. Which is… not what she’s going for. You won’t tell her.

She says something in response, too far for you to hear, and finishes the last of her drink. It’s quickly passed onto a servant who takes it and disappears to, presumably, the kitchens. A possible escape; you file it away for later.

“You know, they’re curious.” The voice is deep, so close to your ear, it feels like it’s rumbling in your own chest.

You nearly jump to the ceiling, whirling around. Striga.

Delighted, she laughs. “Yes, squeak, little mouse. Louder!” Her teeth flash brightly. So obvious an intimidation tactic. So effective.

“What do you mean?” You glance around. “Nobody’s talked to me.”

“You just haven’t noticed,” Striga says with a wave of her hand. She pops a berry into her mouth, still looking awfully proud of herself. “They think you’re some sort of concubine.”

“A—A _concubine_!" What? What! Your face feels hot like it's seconds from exploding.

One of Striga’s thick fingers come up, bent, and tips your chin up. Bears your neck. “Our Carmilla,” she nearly coos, “your patron.”

It's absurd, embarrassing—kind of funny.

She laughs again. Yes, funny.

Also, not that absurd.

You bite your lip, eyes flickering to the crowd once more. “Well, it’s _her_ reputation.”

“It is,” Striga agrees. “Eat up—you’ll need it. I might finally have a sample of you.”

You blink, and she's gone, returned to Morana’s side.

Some time in your relationship's early days, Carmilla had presented you to the Council and had offered your neck. You'd gone along with her, as you’re wont to do. She always takes care of you after, keeps to her word, and so it didn’t make a huge difference who drank from you.

Lenore, not hungry and having been there, done that, declined. Morana had looked at you like you were a leper and said something to the effect of how she refused to put her mouth on Carmilla’s “special toy.” The insinuation was not lost on you. Neither on Carmilla, who wrinkled her nose and called Morana crass. Striga barely glanced over, just agreed with Morana, and made an impatient motion with her hand, wanting to move on.

Carmilla shrugged, dismissing you, and you had left, relieved. That was that.

The possibility now, that Striga would partake, didn’t really scare you. She cuts an imposing figure, but you know her. That is, you have spoken with her before and, weird to think about, sure, but you’re basically housemates. That’s enough, in your mind, to make her out as someone safer than the unknowns at this party.

Also, there’s a good chance that she was just fucking with you.

It drives you insane. Nobody in this castle can ever act _normal_.

On the other side of the room, Carmilla’s sweeping the previously locked doors open. What looks to be the more important guests in the room begin to filter in, including Striga and Morana, both smiling in a way that has your hairs stand on end. Inside, you a slip of Lenore’s profile, already lounging in a chair.

A world away, Carmilla catches you looking and raises an eyebrow. You avert your gaze.

The sound of the door closing, the following click of the lock, resounds.

Heaving a sigh, you make your way out the room, into the hallway. You head to the kitchen, hoping for something more substantial than finger foods.

There’s a pot of broth on the stove, so you help yourself. The servants summarily ignore you.

You’re not in the mood for company, anyway.

When you’re done, you drop the bowl by the sink, adding to an already considerable pile of dirty dishes.

If you were hoping to catch Hector on a kitchen raid, you’d be silently disappointed. He makes for shitty company, but company’s company.

Hopefully, Carmilla will be done with her secret meeting by the time you get back. The room lacks a particular something without all those moustache-twirling vampires. You wonder how she'd take it if you called her a clichéd folktale villain. She lives in a nefarious looking castle built on a snowcapped mountain, for crying out loud.

Probably, she would not take it very well.

You near the party and you save the thought for another occasion.

But you shouldn’t have let your mind wander, shouldn’t have dropped your guard—

“Human. Oh, _human_.”

You kick and struggle against the body pinning you against the wall. It happened too fast for you to comprehend—you gasp for breath, clawing at the hand around your throat. Squeezing.

Every cut you scratch into the vampire’s arm closes almost immediately.

What happens next occurs in quick succession.

A testament to how different your worlds are; these creatures, those like them, are giants among men. They live in a sphere too fast-paced, on too large a scale, to be comparable to what you can comprehend.

The beast rips at your collar and opens its mouth, fixing on the exposed flesh.

Carmilla appears in a flash of white. Hauls the beast off you and plants a hand on its shoulder, one on its jaw, for leverage, and rips its head clean off. It lands on the other side of the hall with a sickening splat. It's sideways, lying with its mouth open—teeth bearing at you even in true death.

You sit on the floor, helpless, as Carmilla kicks the body away with a huff.

"So uncivilised," she mutters as she wrenches you to your feet.

You stumble a little. She catches you.

"What did I say about staying in sight, pet? Hm?" She wipes a thumb over your cheek, catching a slipping drop of blood, and makes a face at the taste. You hadn't even realised you'd been in the spray.

Maybe you should apologise. For what? What just happened? What?

Carmilla squints at you. Attempts to somehow glue your top together with her eyes. This is a power not even she possesses. In the end, she just sighs and rolls her eyes, and drapes her coat around your shoulders. Sharply, she tugs the fronts together.

“Come along,” she says after she’s finished assessing your appearance.

“What?” Still?

She grins. “Party’s not over.”

Your hands shake. She watches them do it, watches as one of them bumps clumsily at her arm, grips loosely. "No." You repeatedly blink, trying to refocus your eyes. Looking up at her. "No drinking. From me. Tonight. Please."

She blinks back. “Of course not.”

It's really not that bad. You hadn't been accosted like this since the first night and, the horror of all horrors, you've seen Carmilla casually dismember people before. You take in a shaky breath and let go of her.

Then, you cast the corpse another glance. “What about that?”

She snorts. “Adds to the décor, don’t you think? Let the rest see on the way out what might happen if they don’t behave.”

She leads the way, but you touch her wrist again before she opens the door.

“What now?”

You grimace, shifting on your feet. “Thank you.”

Whatever dismissive rebuke she might think of seems to die on her lips. She tilts her head toward the door, eyes you, and pulls the handle. “Stay close,” she says, terse, and enters.

You follow behind and, indeed, maintain a ten-step distance from her at most.

As the night comes to a close, you find yourself slumping against an armchair. Carmilla steps around you and eases into the chair. On the opposite loveseat, Striga slings a thick arm around Morana’s slender shoulders. Lenore lies on her back, head on Striga's thigh, legs flung over the side of the seat.

Carmilla snaps her fingers, commands your attention. You glance over.

“Sit if you’re tired.”

You stare at her, uncomprehending. There are no free chairs nearby.

Then, it dawns on you and, slowly, you sink to the floor, wrapped up in Carmilla’s cloak.

Laughing, Lenore looks over at you with that calculating gaze of hers. “Play dead, puppy. Heel!”

“Piss off,” you say without any real bite, leaning your head on the arm of Carmilla’s chair.

“No fun.”

Carmilla idly puts her hand in your hair, scratching.

* * *

In the week after that night, Carmilla doesn’t approach you. You don’t know if it’s out of respect for your boundaries—this, you doubt—or if it’s because she’s busy. Maybe, she’s uncomfortable with how she’d shown too much of her hand.

She had.

Whatever the case is, you’re beginning to feel a little stir crazy. You’re moments from heading to the kitchen just to badger the staff there for some company when you hear it: the click-clack, click-clack of her heels.

That's a sound you hadn't heard in a while. Usually, her footfalls aren't so loud. Then again, usually, when you're with her, neither of you is dressed.

You open your door, anticipating her arrival. She enters in a blur and runs directly into you. The doorknob slips from your hand, and the door closes with a bang.

“Oof,” you say into her shoulder.

Momentum unbroken, she continues barreling forward until you slam into the wall.

“ _Oof_.” Hot, wet tongue on your jaw. In the divot. “ _Oh_.”

The wall is smooth, and you slide a bit. Carmilla easily hikes you back up against it as she assaults your neck. She bites ferociously and with no warning.

You wrap tighter onto her, feeling almost unwell from how abruptly you become aroused from that.

It may be a problem for another day.

She nips and sucks, catching every bead of blood that swells up from the puncture wounds. The sensation is like no other, painful in the most delightful ways—and in not-so-great ways. Regardless, you grind into her stomach, trying to take the edge off the tension and whimpering when she grins into your aching throat.

“ _Whore_ ,” she accuses. You tremble, eyes squeezed shut. “You’d do anything for it, hm?”

“Just,” you manage between gasps, “get on with it.”

Not the right move.

Her hands clamp down on your hips with a bruising force, lips peeling back into a sneer. “Boldness doesn’t suit you, pet. I should have you licking my shoes. Chained, crawling, begging for forgiveness.”

Okay, so she’s mad she emoted.

She lifts you off the wall only to slam you back in, knocking the wind from your lungs. You will have a huge bruise mottling your back tomorrow. “Sorry,” you gasp out, holding onto her for dear life.

She scoffs. “Oh, my lonely little whore.”

This makes you go a little cold. There’s a hollow in the pit of your stomach, widening when she chuckles.

“You think I wouldn’t notice? Sad, pathetic thing, moping with those dusty books. You’re below even the ingrates I keep on my staff.” In a deceptively gentle move, she combs a hair back from your face. “It’s amusing, watching you. How much more of this can you stand? I would like to know. I should keep you until the moment right before the thought to leave occurs to you. I’ll throw you out first. You’re disposable; don’t you know?”

Your arms are slack now, around her shoulders. You just stare at her.

She smiles, strokes the side of your face. “You’ve always been disposable.”

It hurts. It does. You were lonely before you came here, and you're lonely still. And she keeps you that way.

“Tell me,” she whispers, drawing close. Her breath is lukewarm against your neck. “Do you want to leave yet? When? Soon?”

You think hard about it. Even now, you don’t think you could leave. It _is_ sad that you live hoping that today Carmilla will summon you; today, Hector will deign to bicker with you; today, the kitchen servants will ask you something in return.

It happens just often enough to keep you here, wanting more.

It happens just often enough because she’s designed it like that. She wants you to be just miserable enough. Just happy enough.

She’s playing a game with you; one she takes vicious delight from. Patiently waits for you to fold. But she lets you sit at the table. She always lets you sit at the table.

You grin, now.

Yes, she knows how to hurt you best. She’s shown you that and, in doing so, she has revealed too much about herself. Who thinks this hard about somebody one apparently looks down upon? Who cares like this?

And you haven’t forgotten the party. No, she hasn’t either.

She registers the curl at your lips the moment you make contact with her neck, but she doesn’t have time to react to it, doesn’t expect this: you open up your wet, empty mouth, and you bite, filling it up, up, up.

She seizes, goes rigid beneath you.

Her blood oozes out slowly. She lacks a beating heart to keep it all circulating, after all. You don't drink, you just take it into your mouth, tasting it on your tongue. It's thick and metallic, and you fight the urge to spit it out. It spills out, down over your chin.

“Never,” you murmur, teeth pink beneath a thin sheen of her blood. Almost hysterically, you repeat: “ _Never_.”

And she releases a strangled shriek of outrage and nearly dents the wall with your head, palm on your forehead to keep you still. Your neck laid out before her. She tears into your jugular, gorges, and you scream.

You scream and scream until your throat is raw and goes hoarse. Tears leak out the corners of your eyes, white-knuckled grip around her neck.

She sucks hard, the slurping sound making you nauseous. You almost choke on your spit, on that mouthful of her blood.

Then, she laves at you. Makes a drooling mess of your throat. Leaves scorching wet trails of her saliva, again and again, over your wound. The familiar prickling sensation of your skin knitting itself together begins soon after.

She rips herself away from your neck. Her eyes, a pair of abysses, ringed in cyan.

You must be a sight, blotchy and teary-eyed, and heaving for breath.

For only a moment, you stare at each other.

Then, she kisses you. Slots her hot, bloodied mouth against your own, licks into you, nearly rips your lip open on one of her teeth. Her tongue ploughs in, tasting the combination of blood and spit. It's like burning, molten copper in your mouth. You take her tongue into your mouth, sucking and scraping at it with a blunt row of teeth. When you realise she's drinking, when you hear the sound of her swallow, you slacken your jaw, opening wider. She groans and cradles your head in her hands, holding you still so she can take what you have given.

It is the single most erotic thing you have ever experienced in your life.

Blood is smeared over your chin, around your lips. They are swollen and tender to the touch which you find out when you lick up the remaining taste. Her eyes zone in on the action.

Her neck wound has closed, long before yours. You palm over where it was, where her blood has dried up.

“I will fuck you,” she says, after a moment, meeting your eyes with an intensity that has you moaning and has your hips involuntarily grinding into her. Her fists close around handfuls of your hair, and her body pushes yours flat against the wall, forcing you to pay attention: "I will fuck you until the sun rises and again once it sets. When you beg and cry for me to stop, I will gag you and keep going anyway."

“You won’t.”

Her nails dig into your scalp. “No?”

You slip your hands into her hair, comb downwards until you stroke the nape of her neck, and you repeat the motion. Now, you smile. “No.”

Carmilla’s jaw tenses. Her eyes close. She guides your head down to her shoulder, poises her mouth over your neck, and angles your face to mirror her position.

“Again,” she commands.

You obey.

Back to the norm.

* * *

Even though Carmilla maintains an uncaring attitude, you make sure to let her know when you intend on venturing out.

The nearest town is small, and the people don't take to you kindly. They can see the direction from where you come from, see where you go home to, and know of the tyrannical monsters you've shacked up with. The town after that is farther than a single day's journey and the rare times you've ventured that far is when you'd really needed to get away.

There, you have few friends. Folk around here are, understandably, wary of strangers.

Still, they can be swayed by coin which the servants provide on request as a provision. When you go out on your own, they bring it all out in a rucksack, along with a horse.

The majority of the time, however, your trips out of the castle are taken with others.

Carmilla sends entourages out to take care of things, and you tag along on some. Not always are you allowed to go with her, as you’re only a lowly human. But her trips are rare to begin with—she’s a busy woman; she can’t be expected to oversee everything.

You try to pull your weight, not that you have many unique skills. You can read and write, at least, and you can carry things and have since learned how to tend to horses. Despite it being tedious work, the feeling of being useful does a lot of good for you.

There’s an implicit understanding that you should have your own tent, which lends much to your comfort. Yes, they’re human-hating vampires, but they are still, chiefly, men. Compared to the castle servants, the soldiers are much rougher around the edges, but even they know when not to infringe. There’s always the fact that you’re Carmilla’s hanging over their heads, and they all know their place.

That’s the great conundrum, isn’t it? One’s place.

A relationship like yours and Carmilla’s could only sustain with clear boundaries, pre-established and agreed to by both parties. It seems, since the beginning, you have both fumbled blindly into where you are now: still wandering in the dark, but together, at least.

Like this, if she hurts you, you won’t see how bad the damage is.

As with most things in your relationship, this disadvantages you much more than it does her.

Even so, you staunchly believe you've weaselled far enough into her life, her heart, that she has no choice but to care for you. She evens the ground on her own.

Your place is at her side, that's for sure. Her place… Well, that's not supposed to be your concern.

* * *

It's past midnight, a few hours more before day breaks. She's in a mood, and your cunt's taken the brunt of it.

She hasn’t bitten you once, hadn’t even attempted it.

A breath punches out of your lungs. You fall into her lap once more, the sound of you sliding onto her cock, of your arse hitting her thighs, obscene enough to make your face grow hotter than it already is.

Carmilla sits with her arms draped along the back of the couch, the picture of elegance in her robe. Her eyes are pinned to your lower half, watching the repetitive up-down of your body.

You’re tired. The muscles in your legs are tense, shaking from exertion.

She hasn’t told you to stop. You can’t.

The cock rests, unmoving, unsympathetic, inside you. Your aching walls clench uselessly around it. Without realising it, you've slowed.

For the first time in a while, she meets your eyes and her expression shifts from vague disinterest to irritation. “Faster.”

Whimpering, you adjust your grip on her stomach and lift up again. On your downward thrust, your arms give out. It’s too much.

Her reaction is instant—a guttural sound of revulsion, body shifting to sit straight, hands flying to your waist.

She raises you halfway off the dick and pushes you down, and you can only writhe your torso, legs kicking at the couch. Your jaw works, vocal cords straining to make a noise in the sudden torrent of sensation. She does this twice, thrice, before you’re raking your nails down her chest, deciding that—

“ _Stop_.” She releases you at once. “Too much.”

But then her hands return to the bruises they'd just left, and your heart almost drops through to your guts.

“Carmilla—”

She pulls you off the dildo and releases you again, empty, clenching.

You press a limp palm to her cheek and flinch when she bats it away. “Carmilla.”

“This was why you’re here,” she says, beginning to work the buckles at her waist. “Now, get out.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat, curling your fists. “What’s wrong?”

She hasn’t been this sharp with you in a while. Not during sex, that is. It hurts, but you try not to take it personally.

Until she rolls her eyes, says, "You disgust me,” with such sincerity you’re sent roiling.

“Well.” You climb off her, flushing from shame, indignance, fury, pointedly ignoring the soreness between your legs. Not ignoring it, and hurting more for it. “Thank you for that.”

She stands, too, and you wish she hadn’t. With the way she’s towering over you, with the emotions storming in you, you’re thrown back to your first few nights with her—all the bad parts.

This time around, you manage to preserve some courage. “You’re a bitch.”

“Bore someone who cares, human,” she says as she steps out the harness and passes by, tying her robe shut.

“Fuck you.”

Poor choice of words. She sneers, pointing two long fingers in your direction like a challenge. “Again? Your kind has a weaker will than I’d thought.”

You become very cognizant of the drying come on your thighs, of the ache there.

“Come on,” she goads. “It’s your choice. You stay for it, the fucking, don’t you?”

Enough.

You turn on your heel, towards the clothes you’d left on the floor.

She doesn’t stop you.

To add insult, when you turn around one last time, halfway out the door, you find that she’d already disappeared into the en suite. In a fit of spite, you slam the door behind you with as much force as you can muster and give your best attempt at storming down the hallways without the awkward bowleg.

You never leave the castle while it’s still dark, without Carmilla’s implicit go ahead, but tonight the castle is too stifling to remain.

You wrap up in layers, and prepare a pack of essentials, resigning yourself to the pain that will be riding a horse right now.

Though you had no destination in mind, you’re not surprised to see the nearby lake appear before you.

It's frigid, and there isn't much to do except beat the ice with a stick, snack and burn some leaves in your fire. You should have brought a tent and a sleeping bag. A book, maybe.

There's a patch of dry dirt covered by a rock, and you lie down there for a bit. The sky yawns wide above you, dotted with stars.

You’re swallowed by its vastness.

And, of course, your thoughts wander back to Carmilla.

You’re no perfect saint, but you like to think you are a tad bit more emotionally literate than Carmilla. You can intuit that she didn’t have some rosy past, that something had happened to her, something that made her the jaded asshole that she is today. Does that excuse her actions?

She’s a grown woman. Centuries your senior, in fact. Your answer would be: it is no excuse.

Then, is it worth it to stay? By all accounts, it is a greater investment and effort on your part.

But she’s capable of change, like most beings. She must be.

Anyway, you remember—twice, she said you were there for the sex. She'd been bitter the entire night; those words weren't uttered with more emotion than the others. But maybe that was it.

You had agreed that if either of you wanted to renegotiate the terms of your agreement, you would.

It seems, if you aren't too wishful, she hadn't thought this applied to her.

You stare at the sky for a moment longer, feeling cold, thinking that Carmilla is a little dumb. It’s beginning to turn blue. The moon is only a thin, curved sliver sliced through the vacuum.

You sigh and get up.

The horse is all too eager to head home, more excited than you.

Guards greet you at the door, taking the horse, and giving you side-eyes.

“What?” You raise your eyebrows at them, shaking snow off your boots. “Is she being bitchy? What’s new?”

“Fuck off,” says the guard on the left, and you do right after flashing him your best grin.

The warmth of the castle makes you feel like sagging down onto the floor the further you progress inward. You power through the fatigue, heading towards your room. You’re just up the stairs, rounding the corner, when you nearly bowl into someone—Carmilla, you register in an instant.

You pull up short, eying her warily. She stands like a lone island, still and silent. Abnormally passive.

For an eternity, she does nothing but stares.

Eventually, you realise she's waiting for you. For once, she has left the ball in your park. You don't know what to do with it. "What do you want?"

“We are different, fundamentally,” she says, after a beat. “I’m superior to you.”

“Okay,” you say, rolling your eyes.

But, then, before you can walk around her to your room, she steps closer. “Renegotiation should, therefore, be your right. Yours alone.”

So many words, she cannot say.

You are unaware of the bulk of Carmilla’s affairs, whether by conscious decision or from her disinclination to share anything of her life with you, but it’s impossible not to hear things. You had heard, in passing, of Carmilla’s past. Of how she became what she is now.

You presume that this is how she can genuinely think humans are inherently below her, yet still ensure that you remain with her by choice.

And that’s the whole drama, isn’t it?

In her eyes, you are just a human. A creature that should disgust her. That she should not think twice about. That she, ordinarily, _does not_ think twice about. Humans are excluded from her consideration.

You, an exception to the rule. You, who is virtually powerless in comparison to her. You, who she does not want to control.

It’s paradoxical.

Yes, you realise, she hates it. Hates whatever scrap of humanity she retains. It's not much at all. Her principles, the few she has, only keep her from committing injustices faced herself. Everything else is fair game.

It’s selfish and characteristic. Then again, there’s always an element of the self in everything.

So, she bases her moral decisions on her own experiences, motivations. Materially, it means she treats you better. It means she refuses to ask for what she wants, not wanting to coerce you into something you don’t want. She cannot ask for more; the scales are unbalanced as it is. Does that count as selfishness?

You can’t know if this is all in your head or not, but she asks, “What do _you_ want?”

And you know. “An apology.”

“I can’t,” she says immediately. Pauses. She pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. Tries again. “I can. Your kind repulses me. You, somehow, do not.”

Confirms your suspicions.

“Sorry,” she grits out like it physically pains her—it might.

You smile. “Thank you.”

She grimaces.

You stare at her face. The combed lines of her hair, the pale of her gaze, the sharp point of her chin. “Can you kiss me? I just got home.”

You’re not afraid of rejection. It’s well within her right. But she just steps closer and grabs your face in her hand, the underside of your chin in her palm. Domineering, smooth, as always. She leans down and presses your lips together.

It’s a chaste kiss. You've barely even lifted your hands to touch her shoulders when she withdraws. Her eyes are already open, you notice when you open yours.

A moment later, her hand falls away, and you feel, suddenly, bereft. Alone. In some rational part of your brain, you understand that she values you. Still, it’s a lonely existence, yours.

“I’m going to draw a bath,” you tell her, needing the reprieve.

She doesn’t reply.

It’s a short walk to your room, turn the corner, into the bathroom. You shed your clothes off, waiting for water to fill the bath.

When you feel cold hands touch your hips, you continue your routine. Your fingers dip into the water—warm, perfect. A nose bumps into the column of your neck.

You climb into the bath. Carmilla follows.

You notice, then, that she has left every door open behind her. You lean your cheek against her back, and you decide not to say anything about it.

* * *

In hindsight, you should’ve known any progression in your relationship would be like this: confusing, painful, slow.

You can see it clearly now. Time has that effect.

You can see the gap between you two. You can see how stubbornly you both still hold on.

She has lifetimes on you. Is literal royalty. Possesses power you could never hope to achieve—well, that’s not entirely true. She could turn you; a topic you are nowhere near ready to broach and one she wouldn’t ever.

She wouldn't because she would wait for you to bring it up first. It is your responsibility, and you're happy to shoulder it.

Much of her life is a mystery to you and will likely remain so, unless you discuss the subject of your turning.

First, you must contend with what you do know of it.

You know she looks down on every species but her own. You know she is a conqueror. You know this means that her moral compass doesn’t point North.

You know Hector’s role in this. Hector knows more. Hector talks.

Talks about a culling. Talks about persecuting entire peoples. Talks about genocide.

Should you stay? Can you stay?

Carmilla acts, knowing the hurt she will cause.

She, and the rest of them, they all know. You’re either paranoid or smart. Because you think that Hector may have told you their plans under their order. Or, at least, with their permission. He is certainly capable of being spiteful, of just telling you to ruin your relationship with Carmilla.

But you had known before, that she was inhumane in this way.

But—always, there is a catch—you’ve been forced, now, to confront it.

Clarity has been forced upon you. You see clearly what you hadn’t wanted to see before.

And she seizes you by the wrist, pulling you up against the closed door.

“Oh, for—” You rub your arm the moment she releases you, glowering. “Go fuck yourself. I know you have the equipment.”

Furious, Carmilla grasps your head in her hands, fingers pressing into your skull. She shakes, so you do too. She hunches over you; her hair falls around you like a curtain. Enclosed.

Your hands curl into fists. You shove them into your pockets.

Then, she leans in and kisses you.

She doesn’t close her eyes which unsettles you, makes you want to keep yours open. To see if she’ll do it first. She doesn't. You stare into her eyes, and she stares into you.

From here, she could do anything. Lick into your mouth. Take a lip between her teeth. Hell, bash your head clean through the door.

Instead, she pulls away entirely.

You gasp at her sudden absence, exhaling sharply through her mouth, trying to taste the air she left behind. Forgetting she doesn’t fucking breathe.

She inhales and sits herself down in a chair. Doesn’t break eye contact.

Tentatively, you lower yourself onto the edge of your bed, perpendicular to her. For ages, she does nothing but glare at you.

Then, she waves a tired hand.

“You know my plans. You know who— _what_ I am. You know what I expect of you.” She cocks her head to the side, considering you. “You must make a choice now.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” She gets back up and grins. Delights in your turmoil. “You will.”

She walks into your bathroom and closes the door behind her. You hear the sound of water beginning to run.

In front of you, there is the door to the hallway, the stairs, another hallway, to the hulking, arched entrance to the castle; and there is the door to the bathroom.

You look at them.

You stand, and you decide.

**Author's Note:**

> Carmilla: lmao get dunked on  
> You: why r u so obsessed w me luv
> 
> the mood tn is "look baby yeah we need therapy but what if we fucked instead"
> 
> aaaaand with that i mark this series complete, sry this is the end and sry for ending on forcing u to make a decision but heehee <3 
> 
> ok gonna smoke up but kudos n comment if u can, stay safe homies
> 
> AND another edit: look actually this was very experimental for me, i hv literally nvr written smut in my life before this series, and even tho i didnt spend much time editing shit, i did put a lot of thought into the dynamic, the underlying themes, motifs etc in the fics following the first, so yeah this is just a longwinded thank u for joining me on this ride and hopefully this wont be the last u see of me, i guess stay horny ladies and theydies


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